‘Only fit for those that grovel,’ cawed Tzitas to some suppressed laughter.
‘You’ll eat those words, mark me.’
Flavius caught Ohannes by the arm and growled at him. ‘Be silent, for the love of God, or you’ll see us all at the wheel.’
That his old friend was hurt was clear, his expression left no doubt, but Flavius was not willing to soften the look that went with his admonishment. In truth he was conflicted, aware that his new rank would cause him many problems and not least in his relationship with a man to whom he owed so much. But if he was to be a decanus then he must act like one and the first rule was no favouritism.
It was not a very elevated rank, to be sure, but just to be lifted from the mass of ordinary footsloggers and have some status, even if he sought to disguise it, was pleasing, especially to a young man who had dreamt, not so very long ago, as he read the histories of successful campaigns, how he would one day command armies and win great battles. His next words were a whisper.
‘I need you to aid me.’
‘Which I will,’ came the reply, though not in a tone that eased the mind of the person at whom it was aimed.
‘A mite less talking will be welcome.’ The gravelly voice of Forbas, who had come back from his position at the head of the century to see what was going on, stiffened every back and had eyes rigidly looking ahead. ‘Save your puff to move your feet.’
At the first rest break Flavius made a point of sitting slightly away from Ohannes, so as to establish to the others that he was not going to be over-partial to his interests. Whether it worked or not was hard to tell, given there was none of the relaxed talk that might have been exchanged in a contubernium at ease; what it did do was leave him with no one to talk to and a period of time to think.
Almost one of the first lessons Flavius had ever received on fighting had been when he overheard his father lecturing his brothers. Decimus sought to drum into his boys that if you fought for the empire or for the legion of which you were part, such notions evaporated when it came to actual combat. He could hear him now driving home his point, that you fight for only two people, the man on your right and the other on your left.
‘Keep them alive and they will do likewise for you.’
Listening, Flavius, if he had not actually dismissed it, could not see himself as a mere soldier in a line of the same; he was, in his imaginings, a commander, a person directing the fight as much as taking part in it, albeit he was out in front inspiring those who followed him by his martial prowess. When he dreamt of such engagements, all of them were furious, all of them successful, every one, when it ended, with Flavius Belisarius standing in amongst a slew of dead enemy bodies, just before he was cheered to the heavens by his soldiers.
This was reality; seven men alongside whom he must go into battle and not in some grand position. Now he was recalling the truths Ohannes had sought to impart, that at this level you would see little and know less, so what mattered was the spirit that animated them as a group. Calculation, the number of leagues covered multiplied by the days they had been marching, told him they could not be far from Constantinople now and what would happen then? Would they be thrown straight into a desperate fight and if they were-
‘Decanus!’
He shot to his feet and slammed a fist into his plain leather breastplate, looking over the heads of both Forbas and the well-dressed officer who had lifted his head with his baton that first day; it did not do in the Roman army to look a superior in the eye.
‘Come with me.’
Both spun round and walked away, obliging Flavius to move swiftly to get on their heels as they headed towards a covered wagon with a good-looking and well-caparisoned horse tied to the wheel, his drawn to the elaborate saddle, edged with adornments in silver, the accoutrements of a rich individual.
He had known just from his dress that this officer was of the equestrian class at least; indeed, by his smooth cheeks, calm look and easy air of authority he might be a born patrician. The tailgate of the wagon was down and on it sat a stone flagon and some beakers, to which the officer pointed with a lazy finger.
‘Help yourself to some wine, Decanus.’
Forbas had already picked up and poured himself some, smacking his lips after a swallow, which produced on the officer’s face a fleeting look of aversion and one that amused Flavius. Not that he showed it, indeed he was wondering if he should decline the offer of wine, sensing this might be a test of some kind, unaware that his hesitation was noted.
‘Don’t hold back, it will wash the dust out of your throat.’
‘A fine pressing, Tribune Vigilius,’ Forbas said, after another deep swallow.
A thin smile: was it genuine? Vigilius removed his helmet to reveal short-cropped fair hair. ‘From my father’s own vineyard, Forbas.’
‘An ancient one, sir?’
‘Planted in the reign of Constantine.’
Definitely a patrician and from an old family, Flavius thought, an easier assumption to make given he could observe the easy manner and the innate confidence while not himself under scrutiny. Vigilius picked up a goblet, poured some wine into it and handed it to him, the stone of the cup cold in his hand, the wine it contained made more pleasant, and it was of good quality, by being served in such a material.
‘Centurion Forbas informed me last night of his action in promoting you.’ The raised eyebrows – the eyes were startling and blue – seemed to indicate that Ohannes and his demotion were not to be mentioned. ‘I make it my business to know all of my inferiors who have responsibilities, so I am bound to ask if you are comfortable being in charge of the men in your contubernium.’
He had to disguise his voice again as he replied. ‘It is too soon to say, Your Honour.’
Another fleeting smile. ‘An honest response, I like that.’
‘How much time do I have to gain their trust, sir?’
‘A good question,’ came the response, followed by a pause in which Vigilius was working out if the person asking was worthy of an answer. ‘We are two days’ march from the capital. What happens when we get there is as yet not known.’
‘If we are still long enough, Tribune,’ Forbas insisted, ‘we might be able to beat some discipline into them.’
‘Beat?’
‘Beast, I meant, work them till they drop. Some hard training and mock fighting with sword and spear, which time has not allowed us to work on. I have not seen any of your lot do more than march. That tells you little of how they will behave in combat.’
‘Perhaps the emperor will throw open the gates of Constantinople and abase himself at our feet.’
Flavius looked at Vigilius, only to realise that he was mocking the very notion, before he poured himself some wine and addressed him. ‘What are you like in mock combat, Decanus?’
‘I expect to hold my own, Your Honour.’
Tempted to boast, for he had shown genuine prowess in such activities, Flavius held back. Let his superiors find out from observation rather than his own lips.
‘You must do more than that,’ Vigilius replied, for the first time in a voice that was firm. ‘You will need to ensure the men you lead can hold not only their own, but the enemies we face.’ Those blue eyes lost that lazy look and went hard. ‘I am no great lover of the whip, but I urge you to see it employed at any sign of insubordination.’
He looked at Forbas, as if to include him in what he was saying. ‘You are young, very much so, and the men you lead all older by many years. They will seek to exploit that, Decanus, and if they do you must report them to Centurion Forbas who will put them right. Do not seek to be popular, seek to be respected and then should we come to fight you might survive it. If you fail, then …’